


None So Desperate, None So Brave (as those on their way to the grave)

by zeldadestry



Category: Smallville
Genre: Community: undermistletoe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:10:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes again. There is a blanket of quiet surrounding the house, the silence that descends past midnight. Through the window he can see the branches of the trees, black against the darkest blue of the sky. He can see the crescent moon, suspended above. He feels safe. He feels whole. "Clark," he speaks into the dark. It is not a question. There is only one person, one being, who has ever made him feel this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None So Desperate, None So Brave (as those on their way to the grave)

**Author's Note:**

> written for undermistletoe 2006, prompt was 'body-switch!'

_I am going to die._

As a child, Lex recited the phrase to comfort himself, assure himself that he would not be unloved forever, that one sweet day he would be wrapped in his mother's arms again.

As he grew older, it became the most horrible of all horrible facts. He dreamed of defeating death, of finding some way to cheat it, keep himself alive for as long as he wanted. He had enemies, people who hated him, and the best way to thwart them, defy them, was to survive.

Now, the certainty of his own approaching death is the thorn in his side, scratching at him, intensifying the physical pain he already experiences. He hates the very intermittence of the pain. When it hits, he welcomes the end, wishes to lose all consciousness, right then, right there. But when the pain ebbs, when it is bearable, he is almost happy. He can laugh, move, make plans. He is hovering between wanting to die and wanting to live, and of all the dark places he has visited this may be the most frightening. Does he dare to dream of a future, a better life just beyond his reach? His guilt lurks in every corner, facing him no matter where he turns, and now he can never be free of it, because there is no chance to make amends, to set right what he knows he has done wrong.

He is going to die.

Probably not today, he feels stronger than yesterday, was actually able to keep down a small breakfast of corn flakes with milk, slices of strawberry, weak tea. He will hopefully not die tomorrow, because the rain is supposed to end the day after tomorrow, and he wants to see the sun again. But he can feel it will be soon, soon.

He waits for Clark. He rises each morning hoping. Clark will be there before the end.

One time when he wakes, he sees a beautiful woman with red hair standing over him, her face sad. "Mom?" he says, but when the woman's forehead furrows and her lips frown, he knows it can't be his mother, whose eyes had always shone when he called for her. The woman speaks, says her name. "Martha," Lex says. "Of course. Good to see you." He fades out before her reply. She sits with him for an hour, maybe hours. Sometimes his eyes open and he sees her in the chair by the window, looking out. Sometimes she is beside the bed, holding his hand, staring down at him, and he marvels at her mourning. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Did something bad happen? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine, don't worry about me. How do you feel?"

"I have a headache. My chest hurts."

"I'll get the doctor."

"No," he says, squeezes her hand tight as he can. "Don't leave me."

He wakes again when he feels her hand slip from his. It is growing darker in the room. It must be nearing dusk. "I'm sorry, Lex," she says, "but I have to go now. I've got to be in Washington for the next few weeks, but I'll visit again when I return to Smallville."

It is only at the last moment, her hand on the door knob, that he finds the guts to ask her the imperative question. He manages to lift himself up on his elbows and call out. "And Clark?"

She stands in the doorway, face blank, a trick she must have picked up during her political stint. Or maybe she's always been able to wipe all emotion from her eyes, a survival tactic learned through years of lying to protect Clark. "He knew I was coming here today. He's a grown man, Lex, and I can't tell him what to do."

"Please." He has said the word so often over the past few months. He had never meant it before, only said it because he knew it was expected, because sometimes imitating kindness was the easiest way to manipulate. Now it seems that each time he repeats it, it becomes more and more an honest plea.

"I told him that whatever else has happened between you two, you were once friends, and though it may not feel like it now, or a year from now, or even ten years from now, one day he will wish he'd taken the chance to say good-bye."

Lex's head falls back against the pillow. "Good," he says. "Thank you. Thank you." He wants to tell her how much it means to him that she came to see him, that she cares, but he is drifting again, not even sure if she's still in the doorway or if he's been sleeping, remembering her visit, which might have been days ago for all he knows.

"Clark?" He is staring up at the ceiling. This is a new room, every inch of it painted blue, with a high, vaulted ceiling dotted with gold stars. Sometimes he looks up and believes it is the real thing, believes someone has carried him outside and he is seeing the night sky. "Clark?"

"Lex?" He recognizes Lana's voice, reaches for her small, soft hand. "I'm right here," she says, but he can not see her.

"Where's the baby?" he asks. He can hear someone crying. "Where's the baby? Is she hurt?"

"Lex, don't you remember? The baby didn't make it."

"The baby didn't make it?"

"Don't you remember?"

But he's been dreaming about the baby. They named her Lily, in honor of his mother. She looks like Lana. Lex holds her in his arms, watches as she sleeps. "Where is she? She's crying. She wants someone to pick her up."

"He's delirious," a man says. "He's high all the time. There's no other way to manage the pain."

He wants to shout that it's a lie, that he's not using, but then he remembers. It glistens green when they fill up the needle, when they shoot it into his blood. Meteor rock. Kryptonite. He used the Kryptonite to create the infection that's killing him. He used the Kryptonite to take diseases that already existed and mutate them, make them more powerful, deadly, than any viruses ever seen before on Earth. Now they use the meteor rock to knock him out, make him stupid so that he can not remember, thinks his dreams are real, thinks Lily is still alive, lives, when she never even, never even made it out of the womb to breathe her first breath and cry her first cry. "Lana?"

"I'm here, Lex. Don't worry."

"The baby!"

"She's fine, Lex. She just nursed and then I put her down for a nap."

Is she lying? She hesitates like she's lying. "She's ok?"

"She's fine. Shhhhhhhhhh, we should whisper, we don't want to wake her."

He whispers. "The baby's ok?"

"Baby's fine, Lex. Baby's wonderful."

"Why are you crying?"

"Just happy to see you, that's all."

"You see me every day. You live here. We take care of each other."

"That's right, Lex. We take care of each other."

Hours later, the pain has settled, the drugs are waning. He remembers that Lana visited. He remembers that he made her cry. What the hell did he say to her? He wishes he could take it all back, whatever it was. It's been a long time since he's seen Lana. He thinks he can still smell her perfume in the air.

He wakes again. There is a blanket of quiet surrounding the house, the silence that descends past midnight. Through the window he can see the branches of the trees, black against the darkest blue of the sky. He can see the crescent moon, suspended above. He feels safe. He feels whole. "Clark," he speaks into the dark. It is not a question. There is only one person, one being, who has ever made him feel this way.

"Yes, Lex."

"I waited for you. Where were you? What the hell took you so long?"

"Sorry. How do you feel?"

"Better. I'm glad you're here." As though he senses Lex's need, Clark moves closer, sits down on the edge of the bed. "Clark."

"Yes."

Lex shivers at his voice, the heat of his body, so close beside. "I knew you'd come."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

"How did you know?"

"Because you're good. Because I asked for you and even though I don't deserve it, even though you hate me, if I asked, you wouldn't say no."

"I don't hate you, Lex."

"Why do you always lie to me? Why does everyone always lie to me?"

"I'm here to help you. I'm here to save you, if I can."

"Go save someone else. I deserve to die."

"Everyone who lives must die. It isn't a question of justice."

"It's the doctrine of original sin. Adam and Eve ate the apple and now we're nothing but dust."

"You don't believe that. You don't believe in god."

"No." That's true. He hasn't seen anything that would make him believe in the higher one. The creature of the depths, though, he knows that one well, even loves him. "But I believe in the devil."

"There is no devil in this room, Lex. There is only you and me."

"Close enough."

"No. We're human."

"You're not."

"I am in all the ways that count. I'm good, I'm bad, just like you."

"But not in equal measure."

"In balance, though, if we're together."

"Like yin and yang."

"Exactly."

"My father told me, before he died. He told me how once when he was sick, he went into your body and you went into his, and when you were both back in the right place, the sickness was gone."

"Yes, that happened. I hope it can happen again. Is it what you want?"

"I don't know. This is all my fault."

"I'm here to save you."

"Haven't you already saved me?"

"I'll do it again."

"Like you did for my father?"

"That was accidental. This time I choose to do it.

"There are so many things I've done."

"I know."

"You don't. You would hate me if you did."

"I'm not your confessor. You don't have to tell me. I've done things, too, things I shouldn't have, things that were wrong. We all have."

"Don't pretend that all crimes are the same, some are worse and you know it."

"I don't want you to suffer. I don't want anyone to suffer. Let me help you."

"Why?"

"You created these diseases, Lex. You can find the cures."

"I'm not that good a scientist. You don't need me for that."

"I'm offering you a second chance. Don't you want to live?"

"I don't know anymore. I'm just glad no one else has gotten sick."

"Lex, please. Look at me. Listen to me. I don't want you to die."

"Everybody dies."

"I know. But I'm not ready for you to go."

Without warning, Clark grabs his hand and slices open the palm. Lex screams, more from shock than pain. "What the fuck are you doing?" Clark lies down beside him, takes up the bleeding hand and presses it against his chest. The blood seems to flow from Lex's hand directly into Clark's flesh, soaking into his skin. Everything is spinning, Lex feels like they're flying through the air. Memories are rushing through him, places he's never visited, faces of people he's never met. He recognizes some moments, everyday, nothing epic. Jonathan Kent stealing a kiss from a blushing Martha. Pete Ross talking trash right after he hits a shot from far behind the three-point line. Lois hunched over her laptop with Chloe at her side, both of them clutching their morning coffee. Lana behind the counter of the Talon, bursting into laughter. Are these Clark's memories? They must be, and just as he starts to enjoy them, watching like it's a movie, everything goes dark. It feels like he's being drawn and quartered, stretched without mercy in four directions, it feels like someone's pounding nails into the top of his skull, grinding glass into the soles of his feet. And then comes a horrible sound like brakes screeching, but louder than anything he's ever heard, deafening, and then everything stops, everything. There is no sensation but warmth, like he's floating along, back in the womb. There's no noise, not even his heart beat; it's complete stillness. Then, slowly, one beat, then two, his heart's pumping again. Feeling is returning to his fingers, his toes, and for the first time since the infection began to spread, the pain has vanished. He feels strong, stronger than he's ever felt in his life. He clenches his hands into fists, feels the strength rippling up through his muscles. His eyes open and he can see out the window, all the way up to the moon, he can see the surface, the texture, as though through a telescope. "Clark?" he says, but it's Clark's voice he hears. "What's happening? Clark!" But the still body beside him is not Clark's. It is his own. He is lucid again for the first time in weeks, and he quickly grasps the situation. Clark has somehow managed to reverse their bodies, funneling his self into Lex's body. But why? He can't possibly mean to save Lex at the cost of his own life. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Clark's voice booms out, louder than he'd expected, and Lex's body cowers. "Sorry," Lex says, constricting his throat as though he's going to whisper, and the voice quiets down to a normal level.

Clark is reaching for Lex, and Lex watches his body move with a combination of wonder and disgust. How is he even alive? How much weight has he lost, how many bruises and sores cover his skin? Clark is reaching for Lex's hand, but Lex doesn't want to be touched by this moving corpse he has been inhabiting. "Lex," Clark rasps, and Lex hadn't realized how frail and hoarse his own voice has become, like an old man's.

He couldn't see well, when he was in that body, and now he can see everything, even in the dark. He can see his blood, Clark's blood, rushing through his veins, can see his own blood moving, slow as sap in comparison, through the withered body he has escaped. Now it is Clark who is nearly blind, and Lex forces himself to rest his hand against the hollow cheek, reminds himself that he must comfort Clark, who is now surely in as much pain as Lex was just seconds before. "I'm here - Clark - what the hell? Have you gone completely mad?"

Clark's head trembles back and forth on the pillow. "Wait," he chokes out, "wait."

Lex lies down beside him, wipes at something tickling his cheek, and realizes he is crying. He wants to rage at Clark, shake him, yell what the hell were you thinking, what the hell were you thinking? His heart races in panic, he begins to sweat. He feels like running to the beach, to California and back, to ease the tension. That's something Clark can do, if he wants. He can be anywhere within a few moments. Maybe he can even leave the bonds of this planet behind and travel through the universe. Clark could be anywhere, do anything he wants, and he is right here, beside Lex, inside Lex, and Lex can not understand why.

"Wait," Clark rasps, again, as though he can sense Lex's anxiety, and this time, the voice is steadier, the fingers grasping at Lex's wrist have a fiercer grip.

Now Lex's heart races again, not in fear, but in hope. Is this truly another of Clark's abilities? Does he carry his powers not only in his body, but in his psyche, his self? He had never believed his father's insane claim that Clark had healed him. Even with Clark's corroboration of the story, he doubted. It was easier to believe that his father had never been sick at all, that the lab had made an error, reported a false positive. But this, this…he sits up and turns on the bedside light. Clark shies, turns his head away from the bright. "Sorry," Lex whispers, "just a minute." He looks at one of the sores on his body; he can see from the surface all the way down to the molecular, cellular level, he can see his flesh beginning to knit back together. His heart continues to pound, hard against his ribs, like it wants to break through. He turns the light back off, and Clark relaxes. "Can I get you anything?" Of course, everything he could offer is inadequate in the face of what Clark is hoping to give him. Clark has always managed to make him feel less than, and yet, the only times he's been happy to be less than have been with Clark, times when he was overwhelmingly grateful that someone like Clark could even exist, so much more than, better than, everyone else. "Do you want some water?"

"Don't leave," Clark says, and the voice is smoother, haughty and demanding, the voice Lex has always recognized as his own.

"I'm right here." He lies down beside Clark, lies close to his own frail body, strokes Clark's cheek with his fingertip, as gently as he can, because he's not used to these huge hands and all the power they wield.

"That feels nice," Clark murmurs, silky, slinky voice, Lex on a good day, Lex when he's pleased.

"How's the pain?"

"Not as bad as it was. Still bad." He shifts carefully, moves his weight over to his side so that he can turn a little bit in Lex's direction. "You ok?"

"I feel amazing. No pain. I feel strong - awake - like all my nerves are sparking. Do you always feel like this?"

"Don't know. Used to it, I guess. I don't think of my body as special."

"But it is."

"I know. But it's just mine, the one I've always had." He whimpers, suddenly.

Lex panics. "What, what is it? What can I do?" Clark doesn't answer, his eyes are squeezed shut, his fists are clenching, it goes on for one long, horrible moment and then Clark relaxes again. Lex breathes deeply. How stupid to forget that the pain is like this, that it comes and goes, taking him by surprise just when he's begun to hope he was getting better. "You ok?"

"That was bad, worse."

"You shouldn't have done this." He doesn't know if he means it. He doesn't want Clark to suffer, but at the same time, the possibility of both of them coming out of this ok has taken root in his heart. Clark wants to heal him, and he wants to be healed.

"I wanted to."

"Why?"

"I don't want you to die."

Clark wants him to live. He wants to live. Still, this can not be the answer to why. "Everybody dies."

"I don't want you to suffer."

"We've already been through this. Everyone suffers. There has to be another reason."

"Why do you need to know? Why do you always need to know?"

"Is it bad to want to understand, understand you?" He never would have thought that he could go so far as to inhabit Clark's body and still find him just as much a mystery. Has the fascination never been the perfect alien body? Has it always been the man himself?

"No, not bad."

He notices his body taking deeper breaths, the kind that just an hour ago hurt too much to bear. The pain must be better then, and Clark looks as though he's drifting into sleep. There is no clock in this room, no proof of time passing beyond the changes in the sky through the windows. But far away, in the opposite wing of the house, in the room he once shared with Lana, he can hear a clock ticking. Lana had bought it years ago at an estate sale, one of those old fashioned mantle clocks with the little window that showed a revolving painted dial, bright sun in the midday, the moon and stars at midnight. There was a chaise lounge in their bedroom, and she liked to cuddle up there and read with a blanket thrown over her. She liked to look up at the clock, at dusk, at dawn, trying to catch the precise moment when the dial slid into the new phase of its cycle. She told him she never had yet. When she had left, she hadn't dared ask for it. She knew the very fact that she wanted it enough to ask would make him refuse. Why, beyond all the serious shit he'd done, did he have to be such a prick? Lana had never intended to hurt him; she'd left for her own good, but he'd hated her just the same. Even when she had found out about the experiments, he'd seen how they had different aims. Lana hadn't wanted anyone to get hurt, she had supported the testing only to the extent that it could protect innocents. He'd had different motives. Yeah, there was the tiniest shred of altruism mixed in there, but so much of it was just his need to know, to exploit the power of the meteors and those affected by them for his own use, to go further than his dad dared. When the baby died, Lana was convinced it was punishment for what he had done, and because she had not stopped him, challenged him. She was in misery, and still he was so selfish, so fucking blind, he couldn't even bear to give her that damn clock. If he lives he must change. It is scary to contemplate starting again, as himself, not as a cheap copy of his father. He can do it, though, he has to do it, the alternative's worse. If he does die, despite this insane intervention, will they know, will Lana know, will Clark know, that he is sorry, that he wishes it could have been otherwise? Clark is coughing, opens his eyes. He tries to sit up and Lex helps him lean against the headboard. "You alright?"

Clark coughs some more. Lex hands him tissues so he can wipe his mouth, his nose. "I'm ok. I feel better."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"Do you think…"

"I don't know if it's going to work."

"I was going to ask, if it does work, maybe we could be friends again?"

"I don't know, Lex, I don't know if we were ever friends."

"Don't say that."

"I lied before, you were right. I have hated you. But it's only because I loved you first. When I was young, I only wanted to see the good in you, and then everything changed and I only looked for the bad."

"You loved me?"

"Yeah. Didn't you love me?"

"I did." The shared confession sharpens his want. This has to work. He has to go on. "Is it working?"

"I don't know. I hope so. I feel better. The switch back will happen at sunrise. We'll know then."

"Even if it doesn't work, Clark, I can't tell you what this means to me, just to have you here, just to have a few hours without the pain. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He can wait, with Clark beside him. He can hope, knowing that Clark is on his side. He can do anything.

He knows there is no proof that this is actually happening. He knows it could be another hallucination, another fever dream, all the others have felt as real as this one. He knows. But it feels like Clark is here, it feels like Clark cares, and that is enough to make him happy.

Together they watch for the dawn.


End file.
